How It Is
by gwennie3579
Summary: How it starts, how it goes and, in the end, how it is. Wincest. Spoilers through Season 2 finale.


**A/N: **My first SPN fic! Big warning for Wincest, but I'm assuming if you made it this far, you don't need to be warned. This is the most graphic sex I've ever written, but it's not total smut. It does feature bottom!Dean and assumed bare backing, but that's about it. Takes place about midway through Season 3. There are references to the events that took place in the Season 2 finale, but no huge spoilers. Please read and review - it is much appreciated!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own. Kripke, the CW and Warner Bros. own their souls… and they don't let them have nearly as much fun.

This is how it starts:

It's raining, and if Sam is honest with himself, the hunt is going to shit before it ever begins.

The giant, writhing snakelike creature is like something out of fucking _Harry Potter_, except its gaping, dripping maw has four sets of razor-sharp fangs that open and contract in a dizzying, pulsating rhythm.

Sam, beyond exhausted, finally manages to cut the damn thing's head off, but not before it sinks a fang or six into his brother. It's anything but a clean slice, and the job is messy, Sam hacking through layers of tendon and muscle and fat, the creature's guts spattering his face like wet confetti. It's hot against his skin, a sharp contrast to the cold beating rain, and Sam gags a little.

Sam is at Dean's side before the reptilian corpse stops steaming, fingers brushing tentatively over too many wounds.

"Dean, we have to -" Sam begins, then realizes he isn't at all sure what they have to do. Dean's breathing is shallow, and Sam can see his pain in the deep Vs at the corner of his eyes.

"Rain," Dean says, holding out his arm. The gash there is long and jagged, but cleaner than Sam had expected.

Sam shakes his head, blinking through the steady downpour. "What about the rain, Dean?"

"Washing out... the venom," Dean says, but Sam can see that his pupils are blown wide and black, and his teeth are chattering. He's certain some of the poison has managed to seep into Dean's bloodstream, and he prays it's not too much, prays it'll work its way out.

"Let's get you up," Sam says, sliding an arm around Dean's waist and grunting as he tries to haul him off the cold ground.

"Sammy," Dean gasps as Sam pulls him to his feet, thrown off balance by the sudden movement. He stumbles forward, fingers curling into Sam's jacket, chest pressed flush with his little brother's.

Sam starts to pull away out of some weird macho reflex, but Dean sways where he stands, unable stay upright without support. Sam clutches at him, knowing Dean would sooner fall than show weakness, but to his surprise, Dean's fists tighten against his shoulders, and he leans in, pressing his face into the hollow of Sam's neck.

Sam, stunned and frozen, cannot even take a breath, for fear of shattering this tremulous moment. The rain is running in rivulets down his forehead, sliding under his collar and soaking into the fabric of his shirt.

He isn't sure how it happens, but his hands are on Dean's back, holding him close even as he tilts his head back, closing his eyes against the rain. He blows out a stuttering breath when Dean's mouth opens against the skin of his throat, hot breath sending a diamond sharp bolt of lightning knifing through him. Dean's tongue is hot against his skin, tracing a slick path over the tense muscles of his neck and flicking against the tip of his earlobe.

There's a noise between them, a strangled and choked off sound that might have been a whimper or a moan, and though Sam isn't sure which one of them it came from, it spurs him into action. He untangles his arms from around Dean's torso, his hands in front of him fast and punching forward before he realizes what he's doing.

Dean falters, jerking backward in slow motion, face resigned and not at all surprised. He takes two steps back, goes down on one knee, then sits down hard on his ass, legs splayed out in front of him.

Sam hits the ground in the next instant, crawling between Dean's legs and taking hold of his coat, shaking him lightly.

"How long?" he says, and sucks in a breath after the words tumble out, not knowing he was going to say them.

Dean looks at him, cold and trembling, bottom lip jutting out stubbornly. He doesn't answer, not that Sam imagined he would.

"How. Long?" Sam says again, pushing his face forward into Dean's personal space, their noses nearly touching. Even in the darkness, Sam can see every freckle standing out starkly against the whiteness of Dean's skin.

Dean sucks in a breath, raspy and wet, and Sam thinks vaguely that he ought to get him in out of the rain. But then Dean speaks, and every other thought flies from Sam's head.

"Always," he whispers, and the word seems to echo and expand in the stillness around them.

Sam sits back on his heels, rocked to the core. Dean blinks at him, raindrops matting his eyelashes, face totally blank.

"Why now?" Sam asks, fixing his gaze on Dean's hands, resting flat on his thighs. He sees Dean shake his head out of his peripheral vision.

"Didn't mean to," he says, and then leans over to vomit violently onto the muddy ground.

Sam is kneeling next to him then, rubbing small circles on his back, the movements coming by rote. Dean's shoulder tenses beneath his hand as he bows his head and spits bile, but he doesn't move away.

"We have to get back," Sam says roughly, knowing the venom is doing a number on his brother.

Dean nods, allowing Sam to pull him to his feet before shaking him off. He straightens his back and stalks toward the Impala, staggering only a little along the way.

Sam bites back a sob or a scream, and then follows.

They're trudging through the rain toward the motel room, neither saying a word. Dean is listing to the left, cradling his wounded arm and favoring what Sam suspects in an injured leg.

Dean reaches the door first and yanks the key out of his rain soaked jeans. His hands are shaking as he tries to push it into the lock, and he swears violently when it clatters to the ground. He stares down at it, not bending over to retrieve it, and Sam watches the back of his neck worriedly.

"Dean," he says gently. When that gets no response, he reaches out uncertainly, almost afraid to touch him. In the end, he grabs the hem of Dean's coat, tugging nervously and feeling suddenly like a child.

"Dean," he says again, then gasps a little with Dean turns to look over his shoulder, expression naked and wanting and so fucking terrified.

Sam is clutching at him before he's even realized he's made the decision, spinning Dean around and yanking him close. Dean hisses when Sam jostles his arm, backing up quickly, back flat against the door. Sam follows, crowding into Dean's space, pressing his hands to the door on either side of Dean's head.

"Dude, what the fuck?" Dean says mildly, but Sam can see the way his eyes flash in the flickering light hung above the door.

"All this time," Sam growls, "all these _years_, and you never told me. You never said a goddamn thing."

Dean snorts, and Sam feels a flood of relief in the familiar roll of his eyes.

"Let it go, man."

"Let it go?" Sam repeats, incredulous. "You want me to let it go? Dean, you -"

"It was an accident," Dean says, but he looks away from Sam, jaw twitching. "Just forget about it, okay?"

"No," Sam says, leaning close enough that Dean has to tilt his chin back to look up at him. "Not okay."

And then Sam is leaning even closer, and when Dean moves to turn his head away, Sam grabs his chin and holds him in place. And then Sam's lips are pressing against his, hard and angry, and Dean doesn't even try to resist anymore.

It's not much as far as kisses go, and the guilt is setting in already, but Jesus _Christ_, it feels better than anything Sam's ever felt before.

The reality of what's happening sinks in slowly, sliding over Sam like molasses, sticky and cloying. He pulls back in minute degrees, tugging Dean's bottom lip between his teeth. He looks at Dean's swollen mouth, and a surge of white-hot anger floods through him.

"Fuck you," Sam says, throat closing around the words. "Fuck you, motherfucker."

Dean shakes his head, rain from his hair falling in tiny crystalline clusters onto his shoulders. "What was I gonna do?" he says in a voice that is not his own. "Huh? What the hell was I gonna do, Sam?"

"You could've -"

"Told you? Fuck that, man. You'd have thought I was fuckin' with your head."

"You're fuckin' with my head right now," Sam replies with a bitter laugh. Dean is breathing heavily, nostrils flaring, and Sam wants to close the distance between them again, wants to taste rain and salt and home in the impossible warmth of Dean's mouth.

But at that very moment, with their entire relationship hanging in the balance, Dean's knees give out, and he slumps back against the door. Sam's arms snake around his waist and he gathers him to his chest, ignoring Dean's weak protests.

Sam fumbles around for his room key, digging in his pocket with one hand while the other is splayed protectively on Dean's back. He manages to pry the door open and half-push, half-carry Dean inside.

The second Dean hits the bed, he is shoving Sam away, batting at his hands as Sam tries to inspect his wounds.

"Dean, you have to let me check you over," Sam says, frustration seeping into his voice as Dean ducks out from under his touch.

"Fuck off," Dean mutters.

"Dean -"

"I'm fine, Sam."

Sam's jaw clenches and he sits down stiffly on the edge of his bed. Dean is slumped against the opposite headboard, pale and limp, eyelids drooping heavily. There are lines etched on his face, and dark circles are blooming under his eyes. Sam doesn't honestly know if it's from the creature's venom, or from the stress of this night.

After a few long, silent moments, Sam gets up and goes into the bathroom, rummaging around for the first aid kit. He carries it back into the room, and stops short at the sight of his brother curled under the sheets, head bent at an awkward angle over the pillow, breath ghosting out heavily between his parted lips. Something in Sam softens at the sight of Dean so vulnerable, even though he's perfectly aware it's only because the other man is unconscious.

Sam works quickly to clean the wounds, while Dean barely stirs. He pushes his thin grey t-shirt, the front damp and rain-darkened, up Dean's abdomen to check for hidden abrasions. His skin is hot to the touch under Sam's fingers, and a flush has crept down his chest, disappearing in a pale pink V beneath the elastic band of his boxers peeking over the low-slung waist of his jeans. Sam tries with quiet desperation to tear his gaze away from the expanse of smooth skin, but finds himself transfixed. He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his eyes and shaking his head. So many years he's been able to put this behind him, pretend away the feelings he never asked for, never wanted. So many years he convinced himself the way Dean looked at him was the way any protective big brother would look at their kid sibling.

So many years wasted, Sam thinks, and the prospect of many more stretches ahead of him like a bleak, deserted highway.

Abandoning his pointlessly depressing thoughts, Sam finishes tending to Dean's scrapes and cuts, glad to see none of them require stitches, and then tugs his t-shirt back down. He knows it can't be comfortable, but there's a little voice inside his head warning him that it would _not _be a good idea to try to undress Dean right now.

Swallowing hard at the sudden flash of _naked Dean _in his imagination, Sam yanks up the sheet and blanket, tucking it roughly around Dean's shoulders. Dean shifts around, burrowing under the covers, turning his face into the pillow. Sam smiles, lifts a hand toward his brother's cheek, then thinks better of it, letting it drop as he pushes off the edge of Dean's bed and crosses to his own. Sam crawls under the sheet, grateful for the physical and emotional exhaustion that have him slipping into blackness before his head hits the pillow.

The next morning, and Dean is burning with fever. Sam awakes to a whimper so pathetic, he has a hard time believing it's coming from his tough-as-nails brother. But as he blinks himself awake and turns to look at the other bed, Dean lets out a low whine that is more prey than hunter, and a cold spike of fear lances through Sam's belly.

Throwing off the blankets, Sam launches himself at Dean's bed, knee propped on the mattress and hands everywhere as Dean's heat burns through his now-dry clothes.

Sam hisses, moves a palm to Dean's forehead, and can't help but notice the way Dean turns his face into the touch. His other hand slips under the hem of Dean's t-shirt, fingertips brushing the other's stomach as heat radiates up his arm.

"Dean," Sam whispers, sliding the hand on his brother's forehead down to cup his cheek, thumb tapping at his chin. "Wake up, buddy." When that gets no response, Sam moves his other hand to Dean's hip, shaking him lightly, though his fingers press hard into the denim.

"C'mon, Dean, you gotta wake up for me."

There's a soft grunt from beneath him, and suddenly Sam is looking into a pair of fever-bright eyes, glassy and unfocused and so fucking green it takes Sam a second to remember to breathe.

"Sammy?" Dean says, and Sam's heart drops into his stomach. All he's wanted, all he's wished for these last months is for Dean to let _him_ be the caretaker for once, let him look after his big brother the way he's been looked after all these long years. But now, hearing the frightened confusion in Dean's voice, Sam suddenly wishes he could go back to being the one protected, the one cared for.

"Yeah, Dean," he says roughly. "I'm here."

Dean looks up at him for a long moment, brow creased as if trying to put together some puzzle. Sam watches as Dean's face slowly shifts, realization dawning in his eyes, and Sam suddenly knows that _he remembers_.

Well, of course he does, Sam reasons, trying not to panic. He was injured last night, not shitfaced or high. But it freaks Sam out nonetheless, and he has to make an effort to swallow down his hysteria.

Dean composes his face into a picture of blankness, clean as a chalkboard on the first day of school, and his eyes flicker to the window, shrouded in heavy blackout curtains.

Sam, realizing his thumb is still softly resting just under the dip of Dean's bottom lip, snatches his hand away and follows Dean's gaze to the window, even though he knows there's nothing to see, nothing to distract from what's happening in this room, on this bed.

"How you feelin', man?" he asks, looking down at his hand on Dean's hip, fingers hidden under the bunched up blanket, thumbnail disappearing into Dean's pocket. He clenches his teeth, and forces himself to look up at Dean's face.

"Like someone beat the tar outta me then took a dump on my face just for shits and giggles."

Sam purses his lips, fighting a grin. "Well, your sense of humor's in-tact. You can't be too bad off."

"Didn't you hear what I just said?" Dean grumbles, finally raising his eye's to Sam's. "Bring me some Vicodin, bitch."

Sam laughs, shaking his head. "Can't. We used up the last of it after that job in Tennessee." And, as an afterthought, "Jerk."

"The one with the… suck… sucky…"

"Succubus."

"Yeah." Dean shivers dramatically. "Shit. Who'd 'a thought fucking a hot chick would be so damn painful?"

"Well," Sam says, unable to keep the barest hint of bitterness out of his voice, "you sure sounded like you were enjoying it. For the first few hours, anyway."

"Coulda fuckin' rescued me."

"Didn't seem to need rescuing, big brother."

Dean's eyes snap back up to Sam's then, and there's a moment between them as Sam realizes a paradigm, a huge fucking neon-painted paradigm, is beginning to shift.

"'S it cold in here?" Dean says gruffly, and as if on cue, Sam sees a rash of goosebumps break out along his shoulders and down his arms.

"You're running one hell of a fever," Sam says, again pressing his hand to Dean's forehead.

"Snake venom," Dean says, and Sam nods.

"Yeah. Would've taken you to the hospital, but it'd be pretty hard to explain poisoning by giant mystical snakebite in the middle of fucking Pennsylvania."

Dean snorts, then shivers violently. Sam moves to pull up the covers, but then Dean's hand closes around his wrist, stilling him. They look at each other for a long moment, and Sam has the crazy notion that maybe Dean actually wants to talk about this.

The words, "About last night…" nearly spill out of Sam's mouth, but he stops them just in time, waiting to see what Dean will say.

As it turns out, Dean says nothing. He holds Sam's wrist in his hand, heat soaking into his skin like sunlight, for endless moments. Sam knows this is weird, the silence has gone on far too long, and this is not how brothers are supposed to act, even _if _one of them is suffering from giant mystical snakebite poisoning.

But brothers don't kiss either, so clearly there is a first time for everything.

This time, it's slow. There's no anger, no hurry, no fear of repercussion - at least not in the moment. Sam leans down by degrees, pulled in hesitant increments by the hand around his wrist. His eyes are open when his lips touch Dean's, a kiss that is not quite a kiss, but is somehow more powerful than any make out session he can remember having.

Dean tenses for a moment, going rigid beneath him, but then Sam sees his eyelids flicker shut, and he releases a sigh, warm and humid between their mouths, and Sam just fucking loses it.

His eyes are shut then, as he gives himself over to just experiencing the feel of Dean, the taste of him, the way he smells when Sam presses his nose into his collarbone. Dean's body is hot, not in the way those stupid barsluts giggle about in the bathroom, but quite literally _hot_, burning with fever and flushed in all the right places.

Sam can't get enough of Dean's heat, pulling himself fully onto the bed and pressing his body into Dean's from chest to toe. Dean's arms are around him, branding his back, and Sam licks his way into Dean's mouth, coaxing his lips open and groaning at the way the heat is intensified there.

Sam's hand finds its way once again under Dean's t-shirt, fingertips skimming over smooth skin and raised scars, mapping out the tiny hills and valleys and committing each one to memory. The scars are shiny and white, Sam knows, having cleaned and bandaged most of the original wounds himself. Even as pale as Dean is, they're a sharp contrast to the rest of his skin, and suddenly, Sam wants to see them.

He pulls back from Dean's lips, thrilling a little at the way Dean's head moves off the pillow to follow him, and sits back. The sight of Dean spread out below him, eyes wide, lips slick and swollen, is almost enough to undo him. He sucks in a breath, gives Dean a look that is half asking permission and half warning, and then pushes Dean's t-shirt up his stomach.

Dean hisses a breath in through his teeth, but doesn't make a move to stop him. Sam stares down at the lightly freckled skin, eyes tracing a path between them like constellations. But that's not nearly enough, and Sam suddenly knows he has to taste them, name them, get to know each one of them intimately.

He leans down, the tip of his tongue grazing one tiny spot the color of weak tea, then drags it over to the next, taking a small detour to lick along an old scar from their teenage years - this one, Sam remembers, due to some typical brotherly roughhousing, and not any paranormal encounter gone wrong.

Dean jerks at the initial touch, then nearly comes up off the damn bed when Sam licks the scar. Sam smiles against fever-flushed skin, and tries it again, just to see what happens.

Dean bucks his hips, nearly cracking Sam's jaw, and he buries his hand in Sam's hair, fingers twining and tugging roughly at the shaggy locks. Sam gasps a little, unprepared for the not-quite-painful sensation.

He looks up at the expanse of bared flesh, Dean's t-shirt rucked up beneath his armpits, and suddenly feels both of them are wearing far too many clothes. Placing a kiss just beneath Dean's navel, and smiling at the strangled gasp it wins him, Sam sits up, straddling his brother's thighs. His hands move to the waistband of Dean's jeans, riding dangerously low on his hips after tossing and turning in them all night. Sam knows there's no going back, knows this is it for him, but he wants to give Dean the opportunity to back out now if that's what he wants.

"This okay, man?" he asks, and his voice sounds like it belongs to someone else, rough and frantic and damn near _pleading_.

Dean just stares at him for a moment, eyes still foggy with fever, breathing harshly through his nose. "Define 'okay'," he says, an almost angry expression on his face.

Sam feels as if he's been punched. He pulls his hands back into his lap, trying to ignore how they're shaking, and looks up at the wall.

"We can stop this right now, if that's what you want," he says, a sort of panic beginning to build low in his belly. There's a stinging behind his eyelids, and Sam blinks furiously, knowing he'll never forgive himself if he starts to cry now.

"Did I say I wanted you to stop?"

"Look, man, we can end this, pretend it never happened. But just… just remember, you started this. You fucking started this, and…" Sam looks down at Dean, his words finally registering. "What?"

Dean's jaw clenches, and there is something twisted and broken in his face, and the stinging in Sam's eyes just gets stronger as he watches his brother bare his soul, knowing what it costs him.

"I said, did I ask you to fuckin' stop?"

"Jesus, Dean."

"Just… Sam. Sammy."

Sam shakes his head. "Man, we are so beyond fucked."

"Least I have snakebite fever to blame it on," Dean says, with a ghost of his old smirk twisting his lips.

"Don't you dare," Sam says, hands moving back to Dean's waist and yanking open the button of his jeans. "Don't you fucking dare."

And then the smirk slips from Dean's lips, and Sam's got his zipper down and his hand inside his shorts, just like that, no pretense or hesitation, and Dean is hot and achingly hard in his hand.

Sam looks down in wide-eyed wonder, half in shock at what he's doing, and half blown away by how fucking _right_ it feels. Dean's eyes are shut again, and his mouth is open in a little _'o' _of surprise. Sam watches his brother's face as his hand moves steadily and slowly up and down, watches how Dean's eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, how his Adam's apple bobs with every choked off gasp.

Dean's eyes fly open when Sam takes his hand away, uncertainty drawing down his brows. But Sam gives him a half smile and then tugs at his belt loops, hoping Dean will catch his meaning so he won't have to say it.

Dean does, lifting his hips a couple inches off the bed so Sam can slide down his jeans and underwear. They move in an awkward tangle of limbs, utterly silent in the hazy early morning light, all Dean's finesse evaporated in an instant under his brother's hands.

Once Sam gets Dean bared from the waist down, he pauses to take a good long look, terrified and excited and embarrassed all at once. Swallowing hard, he slides his hands under Dean's back, palms caressing miles of skin as he tugs the t-shirt up over Dean's shoulders. Dean raises his arms and tucks his head forward, helping Sam get the shirt off, then lets his head fall back on the pillow, eyes turned almost shyly away as Sam stares.

After a moment, Dean looks up at Sam's face, then pointedly down at his crotch. Sam flushes and squirms a little, but he gets the drift. Face burning, Sam stands up beside the bed and strips off the t-shirt he'd slept it, tossing it onto the other bed. Dean's seen him a million times or more in fewer clothes than this, but Sam can't help feeling naked in a whole new way as Dean's gaze roams over his chest and lands somewhere in the region of his hips.

"Fair's fair," he says quietly, and the words go straight to Sam's dick.

Nodding, Sam hooks his thumbs under the elastic waistband of his boxer briefs and tugs them down, stepping out of them and kicking them aside. He looks down at the green shag carpeting between his bare toes and pretends he can't feel the weight of Dean's stare burning a hole through him.

"Well," Dean says, and Sam risks a quick glance at his face. "What're you waiting for, Samantha, an engraved invitation?"

It's all the permission Sam needs. He moves over top of his brother like a shroud, and there's no place their bodies aren't touching. Sam's hands and lips are everywhere he can reach, Dean burning white-hot in his arms until he's sure they'll both end up in ashes.

It's perfect just like this, Sam's arms corded and strained as he holds himself above Dean, hips aligned just right as they move against one another in a sinfully slow rhythm. But Sam wants more, wants to take all that Dean will give him, and so he works his way down Dean's body, tasting every inch and burying his nose in the soft fine hairs that trail down from Dean's bellybutton.

When he takes Dean in his mouth, his first thought is that it's not nearly as weird as it should be. And that's the only coherent thought that gets through before his mind is clouded with a fog of want so desperate he nearly forgets his own name.

Dean arches up off the bed with a shout, slamming into the back of Sam's throat, and Sam gags, pulling back a little and breathing deeply through his nose. He doesn't know how he knows to do this, but there's something almost instinctual about it. Like before, it just feels _right_, and he isn't in any state of mind to argue with that.

Sam can feel Dean tense beneath him, trying with all his might to stay still until Sam is ready. He slides a hand up Dean's thigh and rests it on his hip, moving his thumb in circles as he tries to soothe his brother. Dean relaxes by degrees, and he puts his hand over Sam's and squeezes for the briefest instant, and then it's gone so fast Sam has to wonder if he imagined it.

Sam gets his bearings then, figures out how to keep breathing, and begins to move. Dean, stoically silent up to this point, growls low in his throat as Sam pulls his cheeks in and slides upward, pausing to swirl his tongue around before sinking slowly back down.

"Fuck… Sammy," Dean hisses, twisting his fingers into the sheets. Sam looks up and all he can see is the underside of Dean's chin, throat bared as he presses his head back into the pillow.

Sam speeds up then, going as fast as his gag reflex will allow, and Dean comes undone, tossing his hips and twisting his head back and forth.

"Christ, Sam," he whispers, pulling helplessly at the sheets. "More, fuck. _More_."

Sam groans, hoping his brother can hear the "Yes, Dean, _god_," in the strangled sound. He throws his leg over Dean's and moves against him in the same rhythm his mouth is keeping, stars blazing to life behind his eyelids.

He looks up at Dean again, so close to the edge it's almost painful, and that is almost his undoing. Dean's eyes are screwed shut and he's biting his lip so hard Sam can see white where his teeth are pressing in against the flesh. Sam slows down, watching in something that is both like awe and horror, as two tears leak from the corners of Dean's eyes and draw twin trails down his temples, disappearing into his hairline.

Slowly, Sam slides the hand on Dean's hip up his chest, over his shoulder and neck, running a thumb along his jaw line before wiping the damp tear tracks with two fingers. Dean stops breathing, utterly still, Sam's mouth still wrapped around him.

Sam traces his fingers over Dean's cheek, lingering along the day-old stubble, and then runs them along his lip. Dean's mouth opens without pause, taking in Sam's fingers and mimicking exactly what Sam is doing with his tongue.

After a few moments, Dean nips impatiently at the pad of Sam's middle finger and his hips push down into the bed, away from the heat of Sam's mouth. Sam pulls his fingers out slowly as he begins to figure out what's supposed to come next.

Dean sucks in a pained breath when Sam slips the first finger inside him, but he presses down against it anyway, stubborn in this as he is in all things. Sam can feel him begin to soften in his mouth, and he speeds up again, hoping to distract him from the pain and rekindle his interest.

It doesn't take long before Dean is thrusting into him and against him, asking for more, _more, _and Sam wouldn't do anything else but oblige him.

They keep this up for a handful of endless moments until Sam is half wild with want and Dean is cursing in a steady, colorful stream. Finally, Sam raises his head, letting Dean slip out of his mouth as he gently removes his fingers.

"Turn over," he says, and Dean's eyes go wide. Sam thinks for a minute that this is the part where Dean will snap out of it, call him a freak and make like a bat outta hell for the state line.

Instead, Dean gives him a slight nod and rolls over, wrapping his arms around the pillow and raising up to his knees. Sam catches his breath at the sight, thinking for a moment they aren't going to get much farther than this.

"Are you -" Sam says, then stops, not sure what he's trying to ask. "Can I…?"

"Yes, fuck. Just… yes, Sam."

"Are you… ready? I mean, I don't know if I -"

"Just fucking do it, Sam," Dean growls into the pillow. "_Please_, goddamn you."

"Don't wanna hurt you," Sam says, leaning over Dean's sweat-slicked back and pressing his lips to the curve of his ear just in time to hear his quiet, "Want you to."

It does hurt, Sam can tell, from the way Dean's breath hitches and his back goes rigid. But Dean keeps pressing back against him, and Sam is so lost from the moment he pushes inside he can't see straight anymore, and finally Dean's pained gasps turn into moans and vicious swears, and Sam knows he's doing something right, even though he doesn't have a clue what.

Dean comes in Sam's hand and it doesn't take Sam long after, lips pressed to Dean's spine, fingers moving through the sticky heat on his belly. They slump sideways on the bed, Dean somehow falling into the curve of Sam's body, Sam's arm over his waist.

They sleep, and when they wake the light in the room hasn't changed, caught in that weird hotel room limbo of half-shadows and perpetual twilight.

Sam presses up against Dean's back, nose nudging his shoulder, and immediately he knows something is different. He realizes he's cold, naked and uncovered on the bed, and even Dean's body against him isn't warming him up.

The fever, he thinks. It's broken. Dean's skin is warm, but not burning and flushed like before. He shivers a little, part of him wishing he could have that heat back, and that's when he feels Dean come fully back to consciousness.

He sits up abruptly and looks over his shoulder, eyes suddenly gone so clear Sam's stomach lurches.

"Sam," Dean rasps, voice heavy with sleep and creeping toward panic. "We can't. Again. We just… can't."

And Sam nods, or maybe he doesn't, a noncommittal jerk of the head that could mean anything.

He tries to feel surprised. And then he tries not to care.

This is how it goes:

Dean gets pissed, like Dean does, because he's scared. Sam lets him be, making a concerted effort not to provoke him, though it seems his efforts have just the opposite effect.

Dean shouts at him for using up all the hot water, snarks and snipes when his laptop and papers are scattered on the table when Dean wants to eat, and Sam just sits and takes it because he's so fucking _grateful _Dean hasn't shut down entirely.

They hit the road the morning after it happens, Dean anxious and twitchy as they pack their duffles. Sam watches him warily, seeing the strain on his face when he tosses the bag over the shoulder of his wounded arm. Sam had suggested they stay until Dean's injuries were healed, until they were certain the venom had worked its way out of his system, but the stony silence he got in return had him jamming underwear and shirts and socks in his bag with reckless abandon, suddenly in agreement that they needed to get out of Dodge, and quick.

They make for Florida, where Sam's heard there's an amulet hidden in the swampland outside Tallahassee that could be used to break demon deals. It's a longshot, he knows, but he hasn't had a better idea and they haven't managed to turn up any legitimate hunts. And Dean didn't say no, and that's enough to spur Sam on.

Dean takes them down I-75, straight and flat for days with nothing but the yellow glow of Waffle House beckoning from every exit. They stop for a night in Georgia, outside Macon. It's late, and Sam wishes they would press on through, but he can tell Dean's arm is giving him fits, and the uneasy conversation in the car is becoming too much to bear.

They get ready for bed in silence, giving one another a wide berth. Sam moves around Dean in ever-widening circles, orbiting his brother like he's the fucking sun.

Dean offers Sam the first shower, and Sam can't meet his eyes. It's rare, a kindness like that, and Sam resents it bitterly. He glares at Dean from his bed and yanks open his laptop, pointedly ignoring the offer. Dean watches him for a moment, shakes his head, then picks up his towel and heads into the bathroom.

Sam feels a modicum of relief when he slams the door.

He means to be asleep, or at least pretending to be, by the time Dean finishes his shower, but he gets genuinely caught up in his research, and he doesn't hear the quiet void left when the water shuts off.

He glances up out of habit when Dean walks out of the bathroom, and his breath catches in his throat. Dean's dripping wet, steam rising faintly from his pink skin and a thin motel towel slung low on his hips. There's water beading along the dark lines of his tattoo, and Sam's eyes trace the path of each droplet.

"Shit, man," he breathes, wondering how Dean could be so fucking cruel. He'd rather take a punch in the gut than this, which feels like that, only a million times worse.

Dean looks over, almost confused, and then he sees the look on Sam's face. His eyes harden as he crosses to his bed. He picks up the sweats he'd left behind and brandishes them at Sam like evidence from a particularly gruesome crime scene. When Sam looks away, he mutters something under his breath and stalks back to the bathroom, where he stays until Sam actually falls asleep.

The heat in the car is stifling the next morning, even with the windows down, and Sam feels like they're driving straight into the mouth of hell. He wonders if Dean feels the same, and if it scares him. The humidity is so intense it makes Sam cough, coating his lungs and congesting his sinuses until he can hardly breathe. Dean is sniffling too, and Sam is maybe a little glad his brother is sharing in the misery.

He watches out the window as the landscape changes, flattening into a series of gently rolling hills and tall grass. The trees are thick with kudzu, violently green and vaguely threatening in the way it creeps over the branches, hanging on them, weighing them down. There are no more Waffle House signs here, just tourist traps in white clapboard buildings with spray painted signs advertising paper shell pecans and samples of orange juice.

They stop at one of them, and when they ask the Hispanic boy outside where the restroom is, he points to a heap of old tires along the side of the building. Sam and Dean take turns behind the tires, while the boy offers them deals on embroidered hankies and hand-carved pipes. A woman comes out with two Dixie cups of orange juice, and they drink, sticky-sweet in the blazing sun. She watches them without a word, dark eyes narrow, and Dean thanks her for the juice. Sam buys a bag of pecans, and they're back in the car, back on the road.

They make it to Tallahassee an hour later, driving past the stately old homes and through the bar district by the university, heading for the outskirts of town. The road winds through dense glades of trees, thick with moss, trunks disappearing into the grey-green swamp water. The road turns to gravel, and the gravel turns to sand, wet and hard-packed and slick as ice.

They search until the sunlight can no longer pierce the canopy of trees, and then they get back in the car. Neither has spoken a word. Dean drives to the first motel they come across, a squat structure done up in pink stucco. The room is decorated in flamingos, painfully pink, and Sam thinks he can feel their tiny beady eyes watching him. He and Dean share a smile over the tacky décor, and the pain in Sam's belly lessens a little.

But then Dean seems to remember he's pissed, and he scowls, tossing his duffle on the bed closest to the door and kicking off his sneakers. Sam gets settled as Dean cleans and re-bandages the wound on his arm, Sam all the while itching to take the gauze and peroxide and do it for him like he's done so many times before.

Sam doesn't say anything a couple hours later, when Dean yanks the bottle of Jack out of his duffle, then stalks over to the sink to grab a stack of cups. He uses his teeth to rip off the plastic packaging, a vicious snarl twisting his features, and it makes Sam want to cry.

Dean passes out eventually, sprawled fully-clothed on his bed, empty cup dangling from his fingers. Sam takes it and puts it on the nightstand, then picks up Dean's injured arm and slides it back onto the mattress. Dean makes a soft noise in his sleep, face slack and unconcerned for the first time in two days. With a sad smile, Sam climbs into his own bed and pulls up the covers, turning onto his side and watching his brother sleep peacefully until he can no longer keep his eyelids open.

In the morning, Dean is gone. Sam wakes to a soft knock from housekeeping, and chokes out a sleepy reply. He hears the rattle of the cart as the cleaning lady moves on to the next room, and he lets his head fall back onto the pillow.

That's when he notices Dean's bed is empty.

Sam sits bolt upright, looking frantically around the room. His pulse calms a little when he sees the keys to the Impala laying on the desk in the corner, next to his laptop. But then he remembers that's not where Dean had left them the night before, instead shoving them into the side pocket of his duffle.

The duffle that is no longer there.

Sam is out of bed, tripping and cursing as he fights to get his stupid long legs into his jeans. He pulls on the first shirt he sees, crumpled on the floor, and feels his lungs constrict painfully when he looks down and realizes it's Dean's.

Grabbing the keys and his wallet, Sam charges out the door. The Impala is exactly where they left it the night before, and Sam feels a surge of hope, truly believing Dean would never leave his baby behind. The only thing that's ever kept them apart is Hell, and even that was only temporary.

It takes Sam less than thirty seconds to find his brother. He's sitting on a green bench with a metal awning over it at the end of the motel drive, and Sam can see from the sign on the lamppost next to it that it's a bus stop. Sam eases the car to the side of the road, careful not to slam the door when he gets out. Truth be told, Sam is trembling with rage and hurt and disbelief, and he knows if he doesn't get control of himself, one of them will be walking out of this with a black eye. Probably him.

Dean doesn't look up when Sam comes around the side of the bench. He's hunched over in the seat, duffle on the ground between his feet, a white card held tightly in his fingers.

"Hey, Dean," Sam says quietly. No punches thrown yet, and Sam figures that's so far, so good.

Dean doesn't move, just stares at the ticket in his hand, his jaw clenched tight.

"I couldn't do it," he says, just when Sam is starting to think the silence will stretch on between them forever.

"Do what?"

"I couldn't leave." Dean looks down at the ticket, waves it around for Sam to see. "I tried, man. I tried so fuckin' hard."

Sam sits down cautiously on the bench beside him, careful to keep a healthy distance between them. He clears his throat and squints up at the sun.

"Why in all the fucking rings of hell did you think leaving would be a good idea?" Sam asks, keeping his voice light, but Dean winces anyway.

"Bus came by twenty minutes ago," he says, as if Sam hasn't spoken. "I got on. Walked up the steps, pulled out my ticket… and I couldn't fucking do it."

"_Why_, Dean?" Sam says, turning to look at his brother's profile, searching for answers in the tense lines of his face.

Dean shrugs a shoulder, looks off to the side, and fiddles absentmindedly with the corner of the ticket. "Thought it'd be best, if I disappeared for a while. Give you time to forget about it. Come back later when you'd…"

"When I'd what?"

Dean swallows, and Sam can see the tell-tale wetness pooling in the corners of his eyes, turning them luminous and leaf green.

"When you'd forgiven me," he says roughly, swiping the back of his hand over his eyes.

Sam stares at him, stunned. "Dean, _what_? What makes you think you even need my forgiveness? For Christ's sake, I was the one who…"

"But I'm the one who… I started this, Sammy. You said so yourself." Dean's nostrils are flaring and Sam knows he's close to losing it, knows he has to make this right, and fast, or he's going to lose Dean forever.

"Dean, I…" Sam shakes his head. "Was there _anything _about what happened that would lead you to think I didn't want it as much as you did?"

Dean seems stymied by this question. He looks at Sam for the first time, surprise etched on his forehead.

"Damn, man," Sam says, laughing a little. "You are a complete fucking moron, you know that?"

"Sammy, the fuck you -"

"Shut up for a second, Dean, okay? Just listen. Look, you said, when I asked you how long… you said always. Remember?" Dean looks away, then gives Sam a tense nod. "Right. Okay. Well, me too, man. Alright? Me fucking too."

Dean says nothing, but his eyebrows shoot to the top of his forehead, and his mouth drops open. Sam thinks it'd be funny, if it weren't so, well… _not_.

"You remember that year we spent outside Reno?" Sam says, inching closer to Dean on the bench. "It was junior year, and that Lindsay chick asked me to homecoming. I'd never even been to a dance before in my life." Sam smiles, but it's bittersweet. "You and Dad finished up the hunt that morning, and he had us packed up and ready to go by noon. Wouldn't even stick around long enough to let me go to my own fucking homecoming."

Dean gives him a sidelong look, an unreadable expression on his face. "I remember."

"And you went out the next week and bought a shit-ton of balloons, probably blew up damn near a hundred of 'em, scattered 'em all over the hotel room. And Dad was _so _pissed -"

Dean laughs. "Yeah, he was."

"-and when he left that night you looked at me and you asked me to dance. And god_damn _Dean, I wanted to say yes. I wanted to so bad, but I knew it was a joke, knew you were just waiting to pull the rug out from under me." Sam stops talking, finding it difficult to get the words out over the sudden burn in his throat. He stares down at his hands, feeling worn down and defeated.

"Wasn't a joke," Dean says, so quiet Sam isn't sure he heard right.

"What?" he says, looking over at Dean. His face is twisted and marred with pain, and it crushes Sam to the core. Dean is broken, and Sam wants nothing more than to put him back together again, piece by piece, inch by inch, until the cracked edges are smoothed away to nothing, eroded and softened by Sam's touch.

"It wasn't a joke, Sam. I mean, yeah, it was. But when I asked you to dance… _fuck_, I wanted you to say yes. Wanted to hold you, touch you. Dammit, Sam, why do you think I fought so hard against this? I been fightin' it since you were a kid, Sam. A fucking _kid_. How fucking sick is that?"

"Dean -"

"You can't make it right, Sammy. You can't convince me it was ever okay to lust after my little brother. I won't ever buy that."

Sam nods, knowing Dean's right. He's stubborn, and he'll never in a million years be able to convince himself there isn't something terribly _wrong _with him.

"And what about now?" Sam says, voice gravelly. "How do you feel about it now?"

"It's still wrong, Sammy. You're a smart kid. You gotta know this ain't right."

"Dean. Since when has what's right for the rest of the world ever been right for us?"

Dean doesn't argue, but he doesn't agree, either. They sit there, shaded by the awning while Sam's legs are stretched into the sun, and watch as another bus approaches in the distance, shimmering in the summer heat.

"You won't leave again," Sam says, and it's not a question or a request.

"No," Dean says, shaking his head. "I won't leave."

"Okay," Sam says. "Okay."

This is how it is:

They go on traveling from hunt to hunt, and Dean doesn't try to leave. The amulet in Tallahassee doesn't pan out, not that Sam expected it would, but they do catch wind of a poltergeist in Sarasota. It's an easy job, a good enough distraction, and they accept it without hesitation.

After Sarasota they go to Texas, then backtrack to New Orleans to deal with some rowdy vampires plaguing Bourbon Street. The camaraderie between them is mostly forced, but there are moments of the old ease, like when Sam holds down the vamp leader so Dean can chop its head off. They grin at each other, faces speckled with blood, and then Dean walks him into the nearest bar and buys him a drink.

Mostly, things go back to normal. They bicker and fight, especially when Sam tries to pick the music, and Dean calls him "bitch" any chance he gets. The teasing between them has lessened though, and Sam misses it. Most of their arguing turns into genuine fights now, and it gets to Sam, wears him down.

They live in a state of constant awareness, a terrible knowledge lurking under the surface of normality. Shower time is sacred, something they find in stolen moments usually when the other is out. They carry their clothes into the bathroom with them, never baring any unnecessary skin. Dean doesn't sleep until Sam does, and Sam has to wonder what he dreams about.

It's killing Sam, slowly but surely, and yet the alternative is so much worse. Sam lives in terror he'll say the wrong thing, and Dean will break his promise, and go. It's a horrible way to go around existing, but it's all he can think to do.

But then there are times…

There are times when it's all too much for both of them. Times when Dean pulls the car off on a deserted side road and before Sam can ask what's wrong, Dean's hand is down his pants and they're clambering into the backseat like a couple of teenagers.

Sam tries not to break first, tries to wait until Dean cracks under the pressure, but it doesn't always turn out that way. Sometimes he's waiting when Dean gets back from the bar, smelling of whiskey and perfume, and he slams him into the door as soon as it's shut, hand on Dean's throat as he licks and bites away all traces of a nameless, faceless woman.

They don't talk about it. Every morning after is purgatory, both of them awkward and fumbling and trying desperately to get back to normal.

Sam is beginning to wonder what normal is.

The situation becomes more desperate as the months go by. Dean's clock is ticking, and Sam is watching the sand pile up in the metaphorical hourglass, growing sicker and more despondent by the day. Dean cracks jokes, bad ones, to lighten the mood, but it never works.

And then comes the day when Dean doesn't go to the bar. It's Friday night, but Dean sits in their hotel room, flipping through channels and half-heartedly cleaning his weapons. Sam raises a brow when 10:00 comes and goes and Dean doesn't make a move to leave, but he says nothing.

Sam gets ready for bed, brushing his teeth and changing into sweats in the bathroom, like they do. He settles down in bed after a quiet "good night," but he doesn't close his eyes and he doesn't want to sleep.

Dean ignores him, finishes cleaning his last gun, and then sits on the edge of his bed, staring into space. Sam watches through hooded eyes, sees Dean take a deep, shuddering breath, and push himself off the mattress.

There's a spark in Sam's belly, and it ignites into a smoldering fire when Dean stands over him, looking down with something huge and unfathomable in his eyes.

"Move over," he says, and Sam doesn't even think about it before doing what Dean asks. Dean lifts the corner of the covers back and slides inside without another word. Sam is scared to breathe, but when Dean nudges against his chest and lets his forehead rest against Sam's chin, Sam can't help winding his arms around him.

They don't speak, they barely breathe, and eventually they sleep. When Sam wakes, Dean is on top of him, moving slowly and with purpose, and Sam does nothing more than guide Dean's hips and watch his face in helpless wonder.

It's not a confession, not a solution or an answer, but it's enough. It's how it is, and for now, it's enough.

**A/N: **Please review if you enjoyed!


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